


Down, Down, to the Underground

by sarahyellow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Bucky is Hades, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, I just wanted to make them Greek gods, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve is Pesephone, what even is this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyellow/pseuds/sarahyellow
Summary: In Greek legend, there is the tale of the goddess Persephone. Kidnapped by Hades, returned to save the Earth from her mother's crippling grief, and forced to go back every year. One month in the underworld for each seed of the pomegranate that she ate.The time for Steve's third year in hell has come around.





	Down, Down, to the Underground

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story for another fandom eight years ago and basically just changed the characters. SO if the writing isn't up to my usual level, it's because of that.

Bright, warming rays of sun shone down upon the meadow that lay nestled between two peaks of the illustrious home of the gods, creating a warm, hazy space in the afternoon. The tall swaths of grass that carpeted the ground were of the lightest green, littered with fragile clusters of poppies and other wildflowers throughout. Winged insects fluttered over the ground, butterflies lending the sight of their painted wings, cicadas and others creating a lazy buzzing from far away. In the distance, poplar trees caught the slight breeze along the mountains’ edges. It was the farthest place one could go from Mount Olympus and still remain within the realm of the Gods, and that was why Steve had retreated there. The young god lay upon a blanket of dyed linen that had been spread out for the afternoon. Holding an expired dandelion to his lips, he blew the seeds away, watching as they drifted off in a blither of directions, their journey’s background the pristine blue of that day’s cloudless sky. 

Laughter and music could be heard from over where he knew the dryads were playing. Steve laughed as he sat up and caught sight of their frolicking. One especially licentious satyr had come from the wood beyond to try and grab at the girls. They never learned, Steve thought, as he watched with amused eyes. 

The satyr had made a move, but was eluded in his purposes as several of the girls surrounded him, promptly transforming themselves into a small circle of saplings. Their new forms caged him in, and the last remaining nymph pranced around the exterior gleefully, laughing at the angry faun. The nymphs were teases, every last one, and Steve had a pity for the poor, stupid little faun, so he waved a hand out, using the Earth’s magic to lay a blanket of snow upon the girls’ bare branches. Each little tree soon wiggled and broke from its stance, reforming into the legs and arms and torsos of spritely women.

“Steve!” they all cried, pouting. “That wasn’t nice!”

They quickly forgot their complaints however, falling right back into fits of giggles and shrieks as one of the girls began a snowball fight with the leftover patch of cold. By the time the snow was all used up, several other satyrs had ventured out to join the fray, and soon a sort of war was going on in which the half-man, half goat creatures endeavored to grab the ladies’ miniscule leafy skirts away, and said ladies retaliated with their scant bits of forest magic. 

Steve watched them a moment more, before another voice called his name.

“Steven, there you are!”

A turn of the head revealed the lovely form of Desponia, making her way through the tall grasses. “Sister,” he greeted in return as she drew closer still. When she reached him, the woman plopped down, arranging her skirts and shooing the man she’d brought with her off to play with the nymphs. Steve observed her with a wry expression, “Didn’t father tell you to quit it with the humans?” 

“Oh,” Desponia made a dismissive noise, waving her hand lightly, “He’s your father, not mine, and I’ll do what I want.” Glancing over to the youth who was talking to the dryads with a look of rapture on his face, she commented airily, “He’s a sweetie, no bother to anyone.”

“Yeah, but when you return them to the mortal realm they tend to go back a little stupid.”

“Oh I don’t hurt them any,” Desponia argued, smiling and wiggling her fingers in a wave at her newest pet. 

Steve rolled his eyes, “Fine, do what you like.” Flopping down on the blanket, he closed his eyes, trying to imagine the lovely sun entering his body and filling him up, becoming a permanent thing in him to always warm just under his skin. He had never loved the sun so much as when it wasn’t there, and more than anything, Steve wished he could take it with him. His last day in the aboveground, within the shining halo of Mount Olympus, should have been spent soaking up all the joy and happiness that he could, but what might have been a dreamy afternoon had been tainted by foreboding thoughts of the dark months to come. Steve knew there was no choice in the matter, but he so did not want to go back. Not again.

“How is mother?” He asked his sister, trying to divert his thoughts.

Desponia fixed him with a regretful look, “Inconsolable. She refuses to see anyone.”

Steve’s brows pinched together in sadness. He’d hoped his mother would come down this time to say goodbye. They used to be so close, before. Now she could barely bring herself to look at him past the first days of September, and it hurt Steve like nothing else could. The avoidant gazes and negative whispers of all the rest of the pantheon combined could never equal the magnitude of a single disappointed glance from the woman who had always meant the most of all to the young god. 

Desponia saw the pained expression of her brother and reached to lay a soothing hand upon his shoulder, “She draws away in her own grief and guilt Steven, not for anything you have done.” Seeing that her consoling words did little for him, she moved forward to provide a hug. “Do not fret on it, truly. For she loves you still most of all. You are her darling spring child and always will be. Just wait and see how the world will blossom when you return.”

Turning his face into her perfumed fall of hair, Steve smiled sadly. “I know. Thank you.”

“Any time kiddo,” was whispered softly in his ear. Sitting back a bit, she continued more cheerily, “Besides, there are others who grieve for you. I hear that Artemis has long been a foul creature to deal with, since you first left.” 

Steve groaned, “Don’t talk about her.”

“Why not?” The goddess teased, smiling now that the mood was light again. “They say that you two had somewhat of a thing going. They even say that you were to have been the one to finally tame her.”

“No one can tame that woman, and we’re not talking about this,” Steve stated firmly, looking off into the field.

“Oh, poo. Why not?”

“Because there’s nothing to talk about!” Steve cut in sharply, turning back to his sister with suddenly bitter eyes. “She won’t have anything to do with me anymore, just as half of Olympus won’t. They all look at me as if I’m some sort of tainted creature now, someone with which to avoid any sort of association.”

“Oh Steven, that’s not… They just don’t know what to think.”

Steve frowned, staring down at the grass, “Sure, whatever.” Suddenly the meadow didn’t seem such a happy place. Now it somehow seemed to be mocking him with all its bright colors and cheery birds, taunting him with all the resplendent beauty that he would soon be without.

“There there…” Her words were cut short as a shadow fell over them, blocking the sun’s light for brief seconds before the figure came to the ground and approached. 

“Steven, Desponia.”

“Hermes.”

The man with winged sandals approached, grim mood playing over his face in stark contrast to the happy afternoon. “Steven,” he began reluctantly, “it’s nearly time to go.”

Steve frowned, eyes darkening to match the expression of the other man. Glancing up to the city above, he bit his lip. “Maybe just a moment longer, she might come.”

Desponia petted at his hair. “Sweetie…” she tried, having no real words with which to console him. Their mother would not be coming down, even though it was what Steve most wanted. Wishing she could do something to make her brother feel better, Desponia simply drew Steve up with her, bringing him in for a tight hug. “She’ll be here when you get back. You know she will.”

“I know,” was mumbled into her shoulder, before she released him from her grip. Standing back, Steve looked over to where Hermes was waiting uncomfortably. “I guess there’s no reason to delay. Let’s go.”

Hermes turned as soon as Steve walked over, and together they made their way to the other side of the meadow where the flowers grew thickest. “I will miss you Steven,” the messenger god offered as they arrived at their destination. “We all will, take solace in that.”

“Hmm.” Steve tried to put his despondency aside and be polite to the man who was attempting to cheer him up, “Thank you.” Hermes gave him a commiserating look, something too close to pity to sit well with Steve. Turning his gaze away, he twitched his head toward the spot where the dirt was disturbed, “Get on with it.”

There was tense silence for a moment, where Steve was sure that had he been making eye contact, Hermes would have said something. But he wasn’t, and soon the ground in front of them began to tremble, crumbs of loose soil shivering off the top of a jumbled patch of ground. A crack appeared, the dirt collapsing away into the hole that grew and grew. The Earth opened up in a gaping chasm that stretched wide, black and ominous.

Steve stared down at the darkness that went on below the opening, an opening just big enough for a chariot to pass through. Sighing, he reached over and set his hand into Hermes’ waiting palm. A second later, they were descending into the abyss, the darkness wrapping around them like encroaching water. When the last sliver of light was gone from his face, Steve released the air he’d been holding trapped in his lungs.

When they had sunk all the way down, far beyond the earth’s surface, Steve felt his feet touch ground again. Instead of soft grass, the sand of a riverbank gritted under his sandals. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Steve blinked out at the still waters of the River Styx. “Lovely as ever,” he remarked dryly, taking in the atmosphere of sharp rock, blue light, and lingering mist.

The underworld was the gloomiest place Steve had ever seen. The dead took well to it though. They drifted through the water, their ghostly faces coming into view every once in a while. It was the damned and abandoned who took the wet route to their final resting place. More fortunate souls were ferried over by Charon, the keeper of the dread river. 

_Speak of the devil_ , Steve thought, as the small boat of said man parted the distant mist, headed their way. The soft, lapping waves reached the shore before he did, though the decrepit man was not far behind. 

“Steven,” he greeted with a nasty smile, “Hermes has brought you back I see.”

Wrinkling his nose, Steve pulled the drape of his palla away from the water’s tainting edge. “Unfortunately,” he responded curtly.

Charon only laughed. A moment later his attention was diverted, and Steve watched uncomfortably as the newly-dead form of a woman was helped into the boat, the ferryman taking her two coins of passage. 

“Despicable,” Steve murmured, as Charon fingered the gold lovingly. 

Charon heard him, but only raised eyebrows in mock offense as the woman was seated and he grabbed up his oar again. “See you in hell love.”

“Oh, go capsize,” Steve quipped, turning away.

“No, wait.” This from Hermes, who had a far-away look in his eyes, as if he was hearing the voice of a person that wasn’t there. “Oh… crap.”

“What?” Steve asked, crossing his arms. He did not like the expression that was forming on the messenger god’s face. It was a cringe that looked a lot like apprehension, mixed with regret.

“Your father’s calling me. There’s something going on between Ares and Hephaestus, and Aphrodite’s off somewhere in the mortal realm. Zeus wants me to find her.”

“They always have drama going on, you can’t just _leave_ me here.”

But apparently he could, because Hermes was already rising slowly off the ground, eyes apologizing even as he left. “I’m sorry Steven, I can’t stay. You’ll just have to go with Charon.”

“What!” Steve blew up, “No way.” Hermes was already meters off the ground now and rising still. “You cur!” Steve shouted up at him.

“Take these.” Two denake were tossed down, and Steve fumbled to catch them, drawing cupped hands into his chest. “I wouldn’t put it past him to demand payment.”

Steve opened his fist, staring down at the coins with disdain. Money was such a crude thing; far below a god to deal with. Glancing back up, he watched as the speck of light that constituted their portal was swallowed up by the earth once again, leaving nothing but the profound darkness of the underworld. It was silent and Steve felt very alone. 

“You coming?”

Eyes narrowing, Steve turned and stalked to the boat, taking care not to let any part of him or his clothes touch the water. “I suppose I really have no choice,” he gritted. He wobbled in the hull, unsteady for a moment before regaining his balance and plunking down onto the vessel’s bench. “Just make it fast.” 

Chuckling, Charon pushed off from the bank, setting the boat adrift into the winding course of the river of the dead. Unlike the waterways of the aboveground, the Styx had no current, so it was to the repetitious sound of the ferryman’s rowing that they made their way across the underworld. 

Steve tried not to stare at the dead woman sitting across from him. Her eyes were open, and she looked out at the passing scenery with vague interest, but her body was clearly expired. Her skin was too pale, her hair like limp floss, her chest still with lack of breath. She was like a dull puppet, discarded by whatever child had been playing with it, and Steve averted his gaze when she turned to look at him. 

When they passed the groves of Elysium, Steve looked upon the dead there with envy. All who inhabited that eternal land were blessed, for they enjoyed naught but the finest food and wine, their days spent in splendor and joy. From the distance of the river, Steve wondered if the light from their false sun was as warm as the real thing. 

Further on, they docked along the banks of Asphodel, and Steve watched uncomfortably as the woman was led ashore. Her first steps into the land of monotony were hesitant and unsure, and she turned back to ask if this was the correct place for her to be. Steve tried to ignore her voice as Charon rowed them away, abandoning her to an eternity of nothingness. 

When they drifted past the sorrowful land of Tartarus, Steve made a point to keep his eyes fixed firmly on his lap. The pitiful screams and shrieks emanating from the distance spoke volumes of what went on there, and he did not want to be witness to any of those torments. Charon seemed to be enjoying the sight however, and he laughed lightly as one voice called out to him for help. 

“It’s funny,” he commented, “but every time I drop a soul off here, I’m met with shock and disbelief.” Steve tried to ignore the man, narrowing his eyes at the lip of the boat and hoping he would get the hint. “No one ever thinks they’re evil enough to merit such a resting place. I once ferried a man who had slaughtered entire cities in his bloodlust. He looked so surprised when I left him, like it just _had_ to be a mistake!” Charon bent over then, giving a great guffaw. “Can you believe that?”

Steve glared over to the horrible man, “I don’t care to hear your stories, Charon.”

That wiped the glee from his face. Set back to rowing, he asked sourly, “Just eager to get back to _him_ , hmm?”

Steve didn’t justify that with an answer, simply gritting his teeth until they arrived at their destination. When they drew near, Steve could see the figure standing there, waiting. He stared at him as the bottom of the boat scraped against the shallows. Charon lay down his oar hurriedly, hopping out to drag the vessel ashore. With a deep sense of foreboding, Steve raised himself up and stepped down onto the sand.

The great beast of a horse that pulled James’ chariot was off to the side. It pawed at the dead grass and huffed, the heat of its breath swirling from widened nostrils. Steeling himself, Steve stepped forward and made his way over to the lord of the underworld. “James,” he said stiffly when he was only feet away.

James was dressed in his usual ensemble of black, black, and more black. The edges of his robes seemed to blur together with the mist at their feet, making him seamless; a part of the underground itself. Atop his head was the crown of his station, an elaborate mess of silver worked into gothic spikes. It made him look utterly evil. “What’s with the formality?” Steve asked offhandedly, stepping around him to make his way to the chariot that would take them back to the palace.

Despite his depressing attire, the god of the dead came up behind and grinned at him. Actually _grinned_ , even when Steve himself would not. It angered him, that death himself would dare to find humor in the situation, and Steve scowled. Climbing up onto the platform of the carriage, he called out impatiently, “Are you coming? I’d like to find a bed as quickly as possible and be lost to this world.” As soon as the phrasing hit his ears, Steve clenched his eyes, wishing he could take it back. 

Sure enough, James came up from behind, pressing in close. He didn’t disappoint in his response of, “Don’t worry, I’ll have you in my bed soon enough, and then you _will_ be lost to the world.”

Steve’s hands gripped the chariot’s rail. “That’s not what I meant.”

James just laughed and pulled him back against the hardness of his body with one arm, the other grabbing up the reins and urging the great beast ahead into a gallop. They moved swiftly across the barren plain, and within minutes, the towering halls of Hades’ palace rose into view; the true ominous gates of hell.

Lips touched against his ear in a whisper as they rode into the devil’s den. “Welcome home Steve.”

.oOo.

They came to a halt in front of the entrance steps. Like everything else in the palace, the stairs were absolutely monumental in size and structure, but extremely plain, unadorned. James descended from the carriage’s shell and Steve moved to do the same, ignoring the hand that was held out for him. He started up the steps towards the towering doors that, even now, were being pushed slowly open by servants. 

Crossing the threshold, Steve stalked across the empty entry chamber to the main staircase, never pausing as he began the ascent. James came up behind him, catching up and meeting his progress step for step. “Where are you going?” he asked calmly.

“To bed. I’m tired.” 

Steve didn’t have to see James’ self-satisfied expression to know it was there when he spoke next. “My bed is the only bed. The other rooms are empty. You know this.”

Steve did know that. Last year he had come back for the first time. He’d spent six months of summer devising a way to avoid finding himself in the clutches of the dark god again, and upon arrival his first order of business had been to locate suitable quarters for himself, far away from where Death slept. Unfortunately, he had discovered that the other rooms of the palace sat utterly empty, void of any furniture at all. James had told him that there was no need for it. For none who lived in hell were alive but he, so why should they require accommodations beyond their final resting places? James had always been alone in the underground, living in an empty palace thrice the size of any on Earth. And Steve had been forced to share a bed with him, among other things. 

They continued in silence, their footsteps the only sound to fill the cavernous space. At last, long after Steve had grown weary of climbing up, up, and up; they reached the top. It was a good thing he was a god, Steve thought. Any mortal would have collapsed from exertion long ago. Directly across the wide hall were two huge doors. Steve went and pulled them open, but stopped to turn and address James. “I’m not sleeping with you,” he stated obstinately, wanting to set the ground rules before James tried to take advantage. 

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Yes, and that was last time. This is this time.”

James grinned deviously and drew forward, pressing into Steve’s space until he was forced to back up. James moved into the room as Steve did, following his retreating steps all the way to the bed. Steve was quite disappointed in himself when he felt a surface behind his knees and he realized belatedly that James had steered him to the bed. How typical.

James had the biggest bed Steve had ever encountered. It sat isolated in the center of the room, low to the floor and with huge columns at each corner to support a massive canopy above. The thing was large enough to hold seven people, and still it did not stand out because the room was just that big. The bed screamed that it was a place for activity, not sleeping, and Steve hated it.

A hand was brought up to reach for him, and Steve leaned back as far as he could without tipping over. It was in vain, however, because James’ hand was soon placed upon his neck, drawing him in. His expression was taunting as always, but now with the hint of a threat as he leaned in to assert, “You cannot keep from me what is mine.”

Steve scowled at his words, disliking the claim. “I’m not yours.”

“Are we going to do this all over again?” James watched with dark eyes as Steve turned his gaze away, burning a hole somewhere in the far wall. “Hmm?” he prompted. “Because you know I’ll simply peel your protests away, one by one. Just like before.” The end of his statement was said with his face against Steve’s neck, his hands at his waist.

“You’re insufferable,” Steve muttered.

“Do you know how I know you like it?” James asked softly. Steve squirmed in his arms, but the man simply jerked him in harder against his body. “Do you?”

“Damn you,” Steve gritted angrily, head still turned to the side.

James chuckled at the curse, running a hand up his back. “I know,” he stated in answer to his own question, “because you never really fight me.” He smiled against the skin of Steve’s neck as he felt the body in his hold go completely stiff at his words.

“I did the first time,” was said menacingly in reply.

“Indeed,” James agreed, “You did fight me then. But I had you anyways, didn’t I?” 

It was a question that required no answer, as both men knew what had happened that night. Steve could remember vividly the struggle he’d gone through, trying to escape. They’d both been bleeding by the time James got him on the bed. Being overpowered wasn’t what shamed the young god though. It was that he’d ended up liking it. Every time.

“It was pretty epic wasn’t it?” James asked, taking a second to tuck a strand of hair off Steve’s forehead. 

Steve held perfectly still. A movement of any sort, even the tiniest shiver, would have cost him major points in the game they played. “If that’s what you want to call it,” he replied disparagingly, “I heard we caused a few natural disasters in the aboveground. People probably died.”

James’s next words were whispered darkly and with the faintest trace of amusement. “They did. I collected their souls.”

Steve just shook his head in disgust, pushing the other man away and walking to the opposite side of the room, as far away from _Death_ as he could get. “Your obsession with the morose is exceedingly…” he paused at James’s raised eyebrows, waiting carelessly for his insult, “disturbing.” 

“It’s only my _job_ Steve. I didn’t get to pick it.” Steve watched from his spot at the window as the dark god drew smoke from the edge of his robe, fingers twisting it into the wispy form of a skull. “I manage the dead and dying. It’s served me well to cultivate a blithe attitude.” Steve rolled his eyes, and James frowned, “Consider yourself lucky,” he quipped, “You get to deal in silly flowers all day.”

The smoky skull reformed into a long-stemmed rose, and Steve appreciated the imitation, instinctively pleased, before the thing began to wither and die, shriveling into itself as if burned by an invisible flame. James snapped his fingers, and a flurry of dead, dry petals came down where Steve stood, fluttering unpleasantly against his face and body like snippets of animated skin. 

“Agch, Sick!” Steve swatted at the magic for a moment, before focusing his energy and sending a swarm of petals-turned-to-bees at James’ smirking face. Unfortunately for him, James simply waved them aside, and frozen raindrops fell to the ground like a scatter of diamonds. They rolled across the floor like living things as James approached, freezing Steve’s feet to stone just as James was close again.

Steve tugged and pulled at his feet, trying to get free before the other man could try anything else. But it was useless. Where he would normally melt the ice away with heat, he could not do so now. Such magic came from the aboveground, and there was no warmth here; nothing positive with which to counter all the gloom.

“Silly little princess. Always fighting.”

Steve ignored him, managing to halt James’ progress with a gust of wind, even as he struggled in vain to free his feet. “Get this off me,” he demanded.

“Let me near,” James countered, eyes challenging.

Steve ignored the request, trying a few more tricks to break the ice before giving up. “Fine,” he grumbled, pulling the wind away and frowning as James came forward, kneeling by his feet. A hand was waved over the frozen water and soon it cracked, Steve stepping gingerly away from the remaining shards. He made to move away from James entirely, but was impeded as hands fixed to his ankles, firm as steel. “Let go,” he gritted.

“No.” James manipulated time and came to stand in the blink of an eye, hands placed familiarly at his waist. Steve breathed heavily in reaction to the touch, a small slip that did not go unnoticed. James was grinning evilly as he leaned in and took a kiss in payment. Steve gave it, as he _had_ reacted. But then James went too far, hands roaming to places that he had not yet won. Steve narrowed his eyes, and when said hands tightened and licentious words were murmured in his ear, he shoved the other man a few rough inches away.

“What’s the matter?” James asked, tone cocky, “Can’t get me out from under your skin?”

“Get _this_ out from under your skin.” A wave of rather nasty magic was flung outward, and Steve departed from the room to the satisfying sounds of Death trying to peel a bushel of Grecian thistles from his body. “See you at Dinner James!” He called back cheerily.

.oOo.

“Feeling better?” Steve asked sweetly from his seat at the head of the table. To his disappointment, James didn’t look angry as he approached.

“Immensely. You’re in my seat.”

“Oh,” Steve blinked wide, surprised eyes, “Am I? Too bad. Guess you’ll have to sit there.”

James looked, unamused, to the next chair alongside the table. Then time went too quickly again and Steve found himself sitting not on the wooden seat of the dining chair, but on the lap of Death. He balked, struggling free from the absurd position and quickly moving to the other chair. “Jerk,” he mumbled darkly. He had to will away the blush that wanted to form at how nice it had felt to be held against the other man’s body like that. James knew he reacted to his touch in such ways, and he never failed to take advantage of that fact.

James simply chuckled, scooting in closer to the table. “Now that you’re seated…” He clicked into the air and their food was brought in, the servants only lasting long enough to place the meal upon the table, before dropping back into dust on the floor. 

Steve wrinkled his nose as the ghostly shapes disappeared. “Why don’t you get some real servants for once?”

“Oh believe me I would, if only to please my _loving_ spouse,” James answered, and Steve did not miss the sarcasm, “But there’s an astounding shortage of volunteers. Would you have me employ the wretched residents of Tartarus?” 

“No,” Steve mumbled sullenly into his soup. The sustenance provided in Hades’ halls was never lacking. Despite the unappealing nature of almost every other aspect of the underworld, James did manage to feed him quite well. Steve never refused food anymore. There was no point. Besides the fact that he was immortal and had no physical need to eat, there was also the reality that enjoying a meal would no longer condemn him to anything to which he hadn’t already been condemned. 

Dinner was eaten in awkward silence, though Steve suspected that he was the only one who found it so. James ate his food peaceably, seemingly content to stare across the table at him all evening. Done with his meal, Steve finished the wine in his goblet and stood. “Well it’s been positively mesmerizing, but I think I’ll go now.” 

“Steven, wait.”

The tone in James’s voice was surprisingly earnest, and so Steve stopped and waited. But he stayed facing away, refusing to turn back. “What?” He asked testily. A body was suddenly behind his, Steve could sense it, and then a hand was presenting the rounded form of a pomegranate.

“Don’t you want desert?”

Steve narrowed his eyes at the fruit, of course James was just trying to taunt him, what else? Spinning around, Steve found their faces closer than he’d estimated. He blinked in surprise, but quickly recovered to glare at James’ amused expression. “No!” he hissed, smacking James’ hand so that the pomegranate fell and hit the floor with a thud. “I don’t want dessert. I want to get the hell away from you!” He moved to hurry away but was quickly pulled back by a grip on his arm. 

James pulled him close, leaning in to ask, “Are you certain? I’m sure I could come up with other delicacies to offer.” 

Steve wiggled in his hold until he was released. “Careful or I’ll break our agreement,” he warned. They had drawn a truce, both gods agreeing to no more nasty applications of their magic. To Steve’s immense satisfaction, James actually looked a little worried at the threat, drawing back a bit more hastily than could be considered smooth. Turning, Steve departed from the dining hall, sure of his victory in this small matter. But James just had to go and ruin it, calling out, 

“Don’t stay up too late darling, I’ll see you later tonight.”

.oOo.

“Are you coming to bed sometime this millennium?” James asked lazily from his position. It was deep into the late hours of the night, and they were both back in Death’s sleeping chambers. The king of the underworld lay, sprawled at a careless diagonal across the bed. 

“I’m brushing my hair.” Steve replied for the umpteenth time. He stood by the immense windows that looked out upon the dead plain of the underground. The sky was lit up with the dancing, menacing twists of silent purple lightning. The wild electric storms raged harder than any in nature, serving as the only distinguishing feature between night and day beneath the earth’s crust. Steve would never admit it to James, but there was a strange, wicked beauty to them. He leant against the large window, which, like everything else in the palace, dwarfed him.

“You’re so dainty,” James remarked, appreciative. 

Steve glared back at him, but continued on with his putzing. Looking to find any excuse to _not_ go to bed, he’d begun moisturizing his skin with some of the rich oils that James kept. They smelled nice—like fresh flowers. They reminded Steve of the pretty fields of the aboveground that were his domain. He thought about that, rubbing his arms absentmindedly. He wouldn’t get to see any of that beautiful nature for six whole months…

Behind James was chuckling. “Quit your preening and come to bed.”

“No.”

“Hmm…You know, it’s no wonder the mortals confuse you for a woman; you sure do act like one.”

Steve spun around at that. There was nothing that pissed him off more than being called or compared to a woman, and James _knew_ it. “I do not! Take that back.” 

James grinned at him, head turned upside down over the edge of the mattress. “Make me.”

For a moment Steve considered doing nothing, as they had both promised not to use their magic. But then he remembered the hairbrush. He grabbed it up. Stalking over to the bed, he wielded the object, threatening, “Take it back, or I’ll hit you.”

James actually laughed at that, not believing him. For the gods rarely stooped so low as to engage in physical blows. It was… crude. “Sure you will,” he chuckled, drawing himself up to sit on the bed. He smiled at Steve and invited the attack. “Well? Come on, hit m—”

The shock on James’s face when a brush’s worth of boar bristles cut into his cheek was priceless. But Steve had little time to gloat, as James immediately warped time and had him on the bed, trapped underneath his body. Twisting from his prone position, Steve protested, “We said no magic!”

James growled at his struggles, digging harsh fingers into his wrists to hold him still. “That was before you became ridiculous and started smacking me with hairbrushes.”

“You called me a girl.”

“I did not,” James corrected. “I implied that you resemble one. You certainly act like one.”

Steve huffed, the specific brand of insulted anger turning his cheeks an angry pink. “Yeah? Well you’re… old!” He had thought the comment a suitable jab, but apparently it wasn’t because all he got was raised eyebrows and a barely-contained laugh.

“Old?” James asked, smiling, “How am I old?”

“Who are you kidding?” Steve hissed, tugging on his wrists to no avail. With magic he could probably get free, but in a contest of brute strength James would always win. Sinking back into the bedding with a frustrated huff, he added, “You’re ancient.”

Again, there was an infuriating lack of upset on the other man’s face. He only leaned closer, smug and horribly handsome, and asked, “Yes, but I don’t look it do I?”

Steve kept his lips shut, because he wasn’t going to be so pathetic as to make an obvious lie and tell James that he _didn’t_ look good. Most of the older deities chose to alter their look a few decades once they’d been around a certain amount of time. James was one of the few ancients who kept his visage and form at about the human age of thirty. Though he would never admit that he appreciated it, Steve couldn’t say he’d prefer the alternative. James was hot and he knew it. He didn’t need anyone else telling him. Steve’s pouting silence to the question earned him a fond smile, and it made him uncomfortable. He pressed up against James in a renewed effort to get him to move, but James only used it as an excuse to rub together, and the tension slid from angry to sexual, just like that. 

As soon as the air changed, as soon as James’ eyes darkened and it was clear that they were both thinking of heavy, desirable things; all of Steve’s self-assurance flew out the window and left him a vulnerable thing. Vulnerable because he was attracted to James, wanted James. And James knew it, and would always take advantage of it.

And true to character, he did. The hands holding Steve’s wrists about the pillow tightened and pressed against him aggressively, along with every other part of James’ body. Steve opened his mouth to complain at the harsh clash of hipbones, but was cut off in a possessive kiss. 

His protesting attitude and struggles didn’t suddenly die; they lingered and fizzled out, gradually and in stages. Somewhere in the middle of that, Steve still had the cognizance to be disappointed in himself for letting this happen, _again_. But by the end, at which point James was invading his mouth with the skillful strokes of a very talented tongue, and Steve was way past giving up with his body limp and hands eager, there was no room left to be disappointed. The game had been abandoned.

Lips moved from his mouth, down to his neck, and then further to shoulders and collar bones. Steve opened his eyes to peer up at the structure that arched to cover the massive bed, as kisses were carefully marked onto his skin. A particularly harsh bite, followed by lips closed around to ensure a colorful bruise, had Steve arching up into the pain, half-liking it and half-wanting it to stop. “Jaaames,” he groaned, “Don’t— _Ah!_ —don’t do that.” Unfortunately, the command was weakened by a series of very unauthoritative, breathy pants. “Oh… oh, mmm.”

The lips withdrew, and James emerged looking like he’d won something. Satisfaction and eagerness competed in his eyes, melding together into the sinfully predatory gaze that spoke volumes of all the things he planned to do and—worse still—all the things he knew Steve wanted him to do. Their eyes burned back and forth and it was pleasant and still so hard not to look away. Steve wanted it, but somehow he knew that if James weren’t to hold him down and _make_ him, then he would surely flee and not allow the game to continue. James came close, bringing their faces together until breath mingled and lips almost touched. Almost. “I like to have reminders for later. You know that.” He went back down to finish the possessive bruise.

Steve thought he would blush, if there was any blood in his body left to spare. Right now it felt as if the entire volume that filled him had floated up to linger evenly under his skin, making him feel warm and flushed all over. His only consolation was that when he could see his face again, James appeared to be well on the way to the same state, if his dilated pupils were anything to go by. Hips pressed down again, and this time Steve was hard enough for James to notice it. Damn.

“You like that?” he asked, both encouraging and vaguely insulting at the same time, and Steve couldn’t keep in the needy, aroused noise that came from his throat. What both men knew but neither talked about, was that it was the insulting part that really got Steve hot. The way James would gloat and rub the power imbalance between them in his face, even as he took what he’d been questing for all along, just plain did it for the younger god. 

It had been an accidental discovery, back during Steve’s first trip to the underworld, when Steve had been almost-raped. They called it that for lack of a better word. Because as James so often explained: _you can’t rape the willing_. And much to Steve’s displeasure, it was true. 

He had no doubt that James really would have raped him, had the tides not turned. 

Steve hadn’t understood it, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to return the second year. But he had, and it had happened again. And now it was happening _again_. While the two immortals did not get along very well, so far the sex had always been hot. Fighting, loathing, bruising grips that morphed into bruising kisses and ended in pleasantly sore muscles; that was the way of things. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t plan it. It just always unfolded the same way, and every time it did it was a little less scary and a whole lot more gratifying. 

James pulled himself back, his legs moving to either side of Steve as he sat up to yank on the bunched drape of his chiton. It was clear what he wanted, though no one spoke. Fast breaths and small sounds of frustration seemed to be communication enough as they alternated between quasi-effective attempts to unclothe each other, giving up in favor of more grappling kisses. When he’d finally had enough of the delay, James climbed off the bed, drawing Steve with him, and scant seconds were spent divesting them both of all they wore.

And as soon as they were naked he grabbed Steve again, drawing him fiercely in and toppling them back to the bed. Steve made a faint _oomph_ noise that was incredibly endearing, and immediately after he was arching up in the loveliest way. James leant over him in a sort of push up, hands flat to the bed and bringing their lips together again and again as he crawled and Steve scooted away from the edge of the mattress. James came down, closing the space between their bodies and allowing his weight to press Steve into the bed. Steve made a pleased sound into their joined mouths as warm hands snaked underneath his lower back, lifting his hips up to press them that much closer together. They _both_ groaned at that, and as Steve canted his hips up, James jarred his down to meet him. It was rough and borderline painful, and it was perfect. 

Every time their eyes met they challenged each other, and the heated anger would fuel them on again in a competition for dominance, one which they both knew James would win but was fun to fight over anyways. The god of the underworld would get a good grip somewhere on Steve, fingers tensing enough to leave hand-shaped bruises, and Steve would buck up that much harder, impassioned snarls leaving his mouth as he tossed and scratched and shook the hold off. Then James would get him again and before the lustful indignation resurged it would feel so satisfying to be held down and _forced_.

Eventually they reached the point where, for some reason or another, they stopped. Panting chests and angry arousals pressed together, James had Steve by the wrists again. They weren’t calm—this wasn’t over—but they were calmer. Finally able to connect gazes without the aggression spilling over, James gritted out, “How do you want it?” His voice was low and dark and Steve’s eyes hooded at the things it tightened in his belly. 

“Like you care,” he shot, eyes betraying the interest that his words denied. “You’re _Death_. You don’t ask, you take.” He received another harsh thrust for that, and damn if he didn’t like it. 

“I know,” James answered roughly. “But I’m asking now. If you don’t have any suggestions, then I’ll pick for you.”

Steve glared at him, lips tight in defiance as if he wouldn’t answer. But they both knew he would, and it wasn’t a shock when he growled shortly, “Turn me over.”

James growled and practically threw Steve’s body around in his haste. Again, it was rough and controlling and nearly mean. And again, Steve made a satisfied noise somewhere in his throat. James was soon felt again, his weight coming down to lie all along the back of Steve’s body, pressing him down and holding him still. Steve jerked in continuation of his token struggles, and James’ face pressed to his ear in admonition. “You know you like being handled, cut it out.” 

Even more struggling came in protest of those words, and James sat up suddenly, yanking Both of Steve’s arms behind and holding them at a restrictive angle to his lower back. Steve made no sound, but his breathing was labored with arousal and apprehension at the perfectly cruel way he was being held down. 

With a bit of maneuvering, James was able to get Steve’s legs open and himself between them. With one hand keeping the grip on pale wrists, the other was free to find its way to lower places. Where all other advances had received struggles and resistance, James’ fingers ghosting over Steve’s entrance prompted stillness. A choked, _James_ , was barely whispered; a sudden supplication that was requesting more instead of less.

James gave it, using a scant bit of magic to slick the way as a finger was allowed to enter. For a second, Steve was even more still than before, his spine tensing momentarily before bowing down in a pretty arc that pressed his lower half up even more: an offering. This, more than anything else, was the sight that had James wanting to abandon all preparations and simply drive into him until completion was found. A base desire easily ignored. 

Instead, he took the time needed to make Steve ready for him. After a while, he simply released Steve’s wrists, as it was obvious that the time for struggling was over. James set a leisurely pace, almost willing to draw it out because of the wonderful variety of sounds he could evoke from the spring god. He’d worked his way up to three fingers, and it was just as he was dragging them out very slowly and at a very practiced angle that Steve gave the most plaintive whine yet and fought to hold him inside. 

“Please, please,” he breathed into the bedding, forehead resting against folded arms. 

It wasn’t difficult for James to know what he wanted. Even now, in this pleasure-riddled state, Steve wouldn’t _say_ that he wanted James to fuck him, but he was still asking. If the request had been voiced, it would have detracted from the experience. And despite his apparent callousness, James would do exactly what was needed to make it so good for Steve. So, taking the initiative for what he knew was wanted of him and what he himself was desperate to do, James removed his fingers and replaced them with something much more satisfying. 

Steve gave a long, low exhale as he was breached, but James didn’t really notice, as he was wrapped up in the heavenly tightness that he was sinking into. Six months. It had been _six months_ since he had felt this divinity. Eyes shut tight in the perfectness of it, James tried very hard to stay still once he was seated, hand sliding up the expanse of Steve’s back as he draped himself over the other man’s form. 

They both breathed heavily, calming themselves in separate ways, and Steve shuddered as warm kisses were laid against the damp skin at his nape. James’ hands were resting on his shoulders, his chest against the slope of his back, as he said quietly, “Tell me when.”

Steve swallowed against the dry feeling in his throat, nodding his head into the sheets. Several breaths later he rolled his hips back, indicating that it was ok to move. James didn’t question it, and they were moving, moving in the best rhythm where they gave and took and each pull or shove of hips was the perfect complement to the other. James was the one who led. It was he who decided what would be done and when, and Steve didn’t mind that at all. James knew what he was doing, and he was good at it.

They fucked like they fought—fast and mean. The sounds their bodies made when they came together were lewd and embarrassing, and arousing despite (or maybe because of) it. The sounds that came from their mouths were even worse. Steve was louder than James, but neither man was especially vocal at all. They fought to keep all the surrendering whimpers and moans in, only slipping when the other would do something especially delicious. Every time it stopped being enough and Steve would consider asking for more, the pace would change and James would do it perfect again. 

Steve had collapsed almost completely on his front, and while he was content to do it all in one position, James never was. It was pretty standard that the god of the underworld tended to get bored or impatient when they stayed in one way for too long, and when Steve, out of breath and pleasure-consumed, twisted around to look back at the man who was doing him so good, James was inspired to grab his hips and roll him over.

Legs grabbed and pushed out of the way as James entered him again, Steve bit his lip and whined low in his throat. James grinned down at his obvious enjoyment, leaning over him again and giving him hard, steady thrusts. “You like that?” He asked, swooping down for a kiss. 

Steve parted his lips and James took them. Steve hummed against his mouth and squirmed, some minute change in angle making his breath catch in his throat. “Ooh.”

The look on his face was like surprise, but the wide eyes were quickly accompanied by a pleasure-pinched brow. A shot of possessive satisfaction surged through James. “Yeah?” He jerked his hips forward into Steve. “Mm, take it.”

Steve moaned and his eyes clenched shut, hands coming up to grab desperately at James’ biceps. He brought his legs to wrap around James’ hips, trying to bring their bodies closer to rub against his aching dick. When the stimulation proved not to be enough, one hand was impatiently wormed between their stomachs, grabbing at the aching flesh to pull. 

James knew what Steve was doing. He could feel it between their bodies as he watched the emotions twist across Steve’s beautiful features, finding the telltale rise and fall of his shoulder as he jerked himself to be incredibly hot. “Fuck, Steve.” He increased the pace. Steve keened at the new level of intensity, throwing his head back the little bit it could go. He was looking up at James, directly at him now, and James was looking back. They stared at each other as they panted and shoved and fought to get off. “Are you close?” James asked, voice tense.

Steve didn’t answer, only shoved his hips up harder and pleaded breathily, “Don’t stop.”

They didn’t stop. They kept going, pushing and shoving and grunting with the effort to reach their peaks, until finally they did. Steve got there first, he always did. He felt it coming, the pleasure suddenly shooting up to a level it hadn’t been before, and his movements lost whatever coordination they’d had. He managed a whispered repetition of “I’m coming, I’m coming,” to which James went all the faster in a resurgence of focus, and then Steve tensed, his hips jerking up and not falling back down again as he came between their stomachs. 

James felt the sudden warmth between them and watched the rapturous show played out on Steve’s face. Seeing Steve like that, coupled with the absolute bliss of being squeezed impossibly tighter from his orgasm, James found his release as well. Steve sighed underneath him and reached up to run hands over his back and pull him down. They stayed just as they were for a moment, boneless and perfectly sated, before James began to feel guilty for resting all his weight on Steve’s slight form. He pulled out and moved to the side, and Steve didn’t resist when he was held close. 

They spent long moments recovering, the afterglow gradually fading to be replaced by drowsiness. The silence stretched long, where both men were still awake but too zoned into their own sleepy thoughts to much acknowledge each other.

"......I win.”

Steve scowled and rolled tiredly away from him. “Shove off.”

Eyes closed, James grinned, settling his face into the pillow. 

.oOo.

“What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Steve’s fingers stilled in fleecy curls. “I’d sick little Maeander on you.” For some reason, his usual unaccommodating quip was delivered with a lack of enthusiasm.

The grass made swishing noises as James approached, making his way through the last, low branches of the olive trees. The shadow cast from his body lingered over Steve’s left shoulder as he peered down at the lamb. “He doesn’t look so ferocious.”

Steve smiled. It was something he wouldn’t have done months ago, and he was a little glad that James was standing behind, where his expression couldn’t be seen. “Well,” he said airily, the coolness in his voice mismatched to the slight upturn of his lips, “he would be if I gave him fangs and a temper.”

Some sense of movement told Steve that James had lowered himself to sit just behind. “That wouldn’t be very nice,” he said mildly, and his voice was closer than Steve had estimated.

“When am I ever nice?” Steve asked jokingly, but the anxiety in his stomach made the words waver at the end. He swallowed, trying very hard to care only about the wet little nose being pressed into his palm.

James picked a tiny grass flower, fingering the puffball bloom on its end. “What would you do if I asked nicely, and _then_ I kissed you?”

Now Steve did peer over his shoulder at the other man, and he was still grinning, this time with a raised brow. “When do you ever ask nicely?” 

James grinned back. “Not usually, but I could try.”

Steve snorted and turned back around, pulling the small animal into his lap and snuggling his face into its soft coat so that he wouldn’t have to look at James. The other man had been putting forth efforts to make peace between them lately. Lately being the past four months. And though he was loathe to admit it, Steve had to concede that said efforts were sort of working. 

The grove they were sitting in was one of the many empty, unfriendly rooms of the palace, filled to the brim with green, growing things until it could no longer be recognized as a part of hell, let alone the indoors. A few weeks ago, the god of the underworld had gone through the trouble of finding a way in which Steve could use his more positive earth magic below ground. And now, instead of stinging, thorny, angry things, he had created a comfortable, visually appealing place where he could retreat from the constant gloom of the rest of Hades. A hand was laid on his shoulder, and Steve shivered from the unexpectedness of it, a few anemone blossoms popping up accidentally on the skin at the back of James’ hand. 

“Steve,” he tried again, “What if I asked nicely now? What would you do?”

The lamb was wiggling in his hold, and Steve reluctantly let it go. He watched it wobble off like it was the last hope that had finally decided to abandon him. Now he had no distractions. He sighed. The hand on his shoulder hadn’t moved. “I don’t know, James. What’s the point?”

James moved further up, until they were nearly side by side and he could turn Steve’s face to look at him. “The point is, you would have attacked me months ago. And now you won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” Steve mumbled in reply, but he couldn’t meet James’ eyes as he said it.

“I’m nearly sure of it,” James said softly, his voice much more assured than Steve’s had been.

“Yeah well…..” Whatever clever, dismissive thing Steve thought he was going to say got lost, and he was left with nothing.

“Steve?” James waited until he finally made eye contact. “May I _please_ kiss you?”

It was so awkwardly stupid that Steve normally would have rolled his eyes or laughed. Except now it didn’t feel stupid at all. It felt important, like the beginning of something that could hurt if you fucked it up. Steve was sure that he would, so he evaded, “James, this… this is silly. Don’t—”

“Steve. Can I kiss you? Please.” The second time he said it, it was more impatient, but in a fond way. No less kind. 

Steve looked at the sincere expression on his face and shook his head. “James,” he lamented quietly. “Why can’t you just… make me?”

“Because. I don’t want to.”

“Yeah but…”

“But what?” 

Their faces were definitely way too close now, closer to coming together than falling apart.

“You think you can just give me a garden and suddenly I’ll love coming down here? Huh? Love leaving my mother, my friends? Love spending six months in hell? Love the darkness, love…” Steve faltered. He’d said _that_ word too many times, and now _Death_ would probably get ideas. Damn.

James asked his question again, _politely_ , if he could kiss Steve. But it was pretty much irrelevant, because they were already so close that by the time Steve gave in and said yes, their lips were connecting. It was the first time they’d ever touched without a hint of aggression to flavor it. 

.oOo.

“It’s gone too fast. Time never went so fast before." Steve found James’ reflection in the mirror, hands coming up to adjust the pin at his shoulder.

“We still have a little time. Come over here.”

Steve made a dismissive sound in his throat. “I’m not coming over there.”

“Why not?” 

Another glance in the mirror showed James’ lower lip drawn down in a fake pout. When James was truly upset about not getting his way, he didn’t pout. He flirted. “Because we don’t have time for anything you might want to get up to over _there_.” 

He smiled winningly from his position on the bed, getting up and coming over to hold Steve from behind, both men gazing at each other in the reflecting glass. He set his chin on Steve’s shoulder and hugged him close. “Well, how about in your garden room? Do we have time to “ _get up_ ” to stuff there?”

Steve shook his head in fond amusement. “No.”

“What about the spring?” 

Days ago, Steve had crafted a natural spring in the palace's entrance hall. “No.”

“…The throne room?”

Steve laughed out loud, turning in James’ hold and laying a kiss upon his lips. “Stop. You’d think that’s all you cared about.” 

Steve was only teasing, but James’ face stilled anyway. He assured Steve that he did indeed care about more than just the sex they had. When he began bordering on the sentimental, Steve shut him up with an “I know,” and another kiss. 

.oOo.

Steve stared up at the endless black above. Somewhere up there was the earth’s crust, but all it looked like was darkness, no different than a starless night sky. He spoke with his chin tilted back and a slight frown creasing his brows. “I’ll be gone soon.”

“And I’ll be here when you get back.” James stepped closer to draw his gaze away from above and back down to where they were. “Hey.”

Steve gave a bereft little smile. “Hey.”

“Don’t be like that,” James admonished, putting their foreheads together. “You know you like it up there. Six months will go by before you know it.”

Steve nodded, still mildly sullen. The irony of the situation hadn’t escaped him; that he was now reluctant to leave the place that had previously brought weeks of dreadful anticipation. Things had changed this time. Not the underworld, but his accord with the one man who resided in it. Leaving didn’t seem as glorious a prospect as it had before…

They were still standing in silence when a spot of white split the sky. Steve only noticed it because it brought better light to their faces. Hermes arrived and greeted them cordially. He said nothing at their less-than-hateful behavior, but both men could tell that he was fighting to school his expression. “Ready to go?”

Steve sighed, but stepped forward with a nod. It was only as he had Hermes’ hand in his, their sandaled feet already many meters above the ground and rising, that James called out from the riverbank. “Steve?” Steve looked down, listening, and James asked, “If you could take it back, that bite of fruit… would you?”

Steve opened his mouth to give what he’d thought would always be his answer to such a question, but paused, suddenly unable to be sure of it anymore. “I…” he bit his lip, but soon offered a reassuring smile. “I’ll see you next winter James.”

“Yeah.” James watched him rise up and away, higher and higher, tracking his form until there was nothing left to see but an indistinct shape that faded into bright light, and was lost. The earth closed up again, and all that remained was darkness and the softly lapping waters of the Styx. Steve hadn’t answered his question, but as James made his way back to the palace, he wasn’t upset. All he could think was that the fact that Steve had hesitated was good enough. 

And maybe next year he’d say _no_.


End file.
